


Measure for Measure

by potatoesanddreams



Category: Measure for Measure - Shakespeare, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (the period being Elizabethan), Akallabêth, Alternate Universe - Measure for Measure fusion, Angst, F/M, Feminist Horror Elements, I honestly wasn't sure what to rate this, IMO it's right on the line between Teen and Mature, Implied/Referenced Human Sacrifice, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Intrigue, Númenor, Númenor Week 2020, One-Sided Ar-Pharazôn/Tar-Míriel, One-Sided Sauron | Mairon/Tar-Míriel, Period-Typical Sexual Ethics, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Cults, Sexism, Suspense, Tar-Míriel Shouts A Lot, The Faithful, The King's Men, mostly at people who've earned it, there will be content notes available for each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27483322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatoesanddreams/pseuds/potatoesanddreams
Summary: When Tar-Míriel's cousin is sentenced to death, her efforts to save his life spark Sauron's anger, and he presents her with a sadistic choice. Now she must find a way to save both her cousin and herself - with the help of a mysterious stranger who is taking an oddly personal interest in the situation...
Relationships: Sauron | Mairon & Tar-Míriel, Tar-Míriel & Original Character(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 34





	1. All Hope is Gone, Unless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're not getting into the dark stuff quite yet, but still, do mind the tags! Specific content notes for each chapter can be found in the endnotes; skip down there if you'd like to have a look at those before reading.
> 
> Notes on names and language:  
> Zigûr - refers to Sauron; means "wizard"  
> Most original characters' names are from realelvish.net; the rest are of my own design

The young man was tall and reedy, and obviously nervous; he was fidgeting with the tassel of his tunic when Tar-Míriel came to receive him. He glanced between the queen and her lady’s-maid, looking a bit like a fish with his mouth hanging open, until Tar-Míriel dismissed the maid, who bowed and withdrew to the next room. Then he shut his jaw with a click, swallowed once, and said, “Lord Meryavaldo’s been sentenced to death.”

“You’re certain?” Tar-Míriel gripped the doorframe. She had only recently woken, and had come to greet her guest still yawning and bleary-eyed, but all thought of sleep was chased in an instant from her mind.

The young man nodded. “Certain as the day is long. I met him as he was being escorted to prison.”

“On what pretext?”

“Sleeping with Lord Arnuzîr’s daughter. He says the charge is true.”

Tar-Míriel closed her eyes. “That little _fool_.” She sighed. “Well, I will aid him as I may. Come in. Tell me the tale, and we shall see if there is anything I can do.”

The young man followed her into her receiving room. He looked utterly out of place; he was dressed rather more gaudily than handsomely, and he stood out among the white satin couches and silver ornaments like a peacock amidst a flock of doves. Tar-Míriel bade him sit, and took a chair across from him, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Tell me.”

The story might have been amusing, had its consequences not been so dire. Tar-Míriel’s younger cousin Meryavaldo, whom Tar-Míriel had long suspected of possessing rather more enthusiasm than sense, had gotten it into his head to elope with Lord Arnuzîr’s daughter Narûphêl and live in romantic poverty somewhere on the shores of Middle-earth. But the lovers had not waited to put the sea between themselves and Númenor before consummating their relationship, and although they had concealed their liaisons well enough, it would have been rather difficult for Narûphêl’s father _not_ to notice his daughter’s resulting pregnancy. And of course, because Meryavaldo was Faithful, the whole debacle could not be dismissed as youthful indiscretion, resolved with an extravagant gift to Arnuzîr and a hasty wedding. No, it was a vile theft and an attack on the reputation of a lord of the King’s council, and nothing but death on the altar would do to answer the crime.

“So Lord Meryavaldo sent me to you,” the young man concluded, “to beg you plead his life before the King.”

Tar-Míriel was already shaking her head. The young man frowned, opening his mouth to speak again. She held up a hand. “Do not mistake me. I would do so gladly, but the King is not here. He departed yesterday evening on business to the colonies.”

“Then you rule in his absence!”

That startled a laugh out of her. “ _Me?_ Zigûr is his regent.”

The young man’s face went gray. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and hesitated for a long moment. “Oh,” he said at last, faintly.

“Yes.” Tar-Míriel smiled ruefully. “Not ideal.”

“Hopeless, you should say,” the young man murmured. Discarding decorum, he put his face in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees. After a moment he looked up at her again. “Still, will you not try? I – don’t want Meryo to die for this. Doubt he’s thrilled about it either,” he added, with a halfhearted grin.

Tar-Míriel’s jaw tightened. “Yes, well, a great many people have died in recent years, and I don’t believe Zigûr is in the habit of asking their or their friends’ opinions on the matter beforehand.”

The words came out more sharply than she had meant them. Taking his elbows hastily from his knees, the young man dropped his gaze to the floor. “I crave your pardon, my queen.”

“No – don’t.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You said nothing wrong. I am only distressed for my cousin. But I’m afraid Zigûr would hardly listen to me – any more than he would listen to you.”

The young man relaxed the moment she waved off his apology. “Oh, more than _that_ , surely!” he said. “I mean to say, I’m no one – my father’s not even titled. You’re the _queen._ ”

Tar-Míriel’s mouth twitched into a mirthless half-smile. “I think you overestimate the significance of my status.”

“But, but consider, though – I mean, as you said, people probably come begging him for their friends’ lives all the time. But he’s never had _you_ do it before. Has he?” The young man looked suddenly uncertain.

“No,” Tar-Míriel said slowly.

“So perhaps he’ll grant Meryo a pardon if you ask. Just this once, you know? He couldn’t do that for just everybody or he’d never sacrifice anyone at all, but you, you’re different, right? You could talk him into it. People say you’re silver-tongued.”

“If I could talk Zigûr into anything…” Tar-Míriel left the sentence unfinished. She frowned, and sat in silence for a moment, trying to ignore the anxiety mounting on the young man’s face. It was difficult to do. He looked a bit like Meryo, she thought – perhaps a little younger than her cousin had been the last time she had gone to visit her. His expression strengthened the resemblance. Meryo took on just that look when he was worried – eyes wide, forehead all wrinkled, mouth hanging slightly open. She used to tease him that it made him resemble an ill-trained hound, begging its master for scraps to eat.

That had been a long time ago.

Tar-Míriel sighed, twisting her fingers absentmindedly in her lap. “I will try,” she said. “Lord Meryavaldo is a fool, but I don’t like to think of him dying so.”

“No,” the young man said fervently.

She considered him for a moment. “How do you know my cousin, goodman?”

“My father built a ship for him, years ago. I met him then. We’ve been friends since.”

“And who is your father?”

“Balakân of Rómenna, my queen. I’m his eldest. Adûnabêl.”

“Well, Goodman Adûnabêl, I will pay Zigûr a visit, and we shall see what comes of it.” Tar-Míriel rose, and he hastened to do the same. But when she had called her lady’s-maid to show him out of the palace, he hesitated for a moment just within her chamber doorway. “My queen – my queen, please hurry, because I don’t know how long –”

He really was very young, wasn’t he? “I will,” she said softly. “Go now. Go with Inzil.”

When the door was shut behind the two of them, she found her way to the nearest couch and sank down onto its white cushions. _Zigûr. Zigûr_. She pressed a hand hard against her mouth, and for a few moments she allowed herself to sway, back and forth to the unsteady rhythm of her breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Passing mention of sex  
> Passing mention of human sacrifice  
> Elizabethan era-typical views on sexual ethics
> 
> -
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	2. The Deputed Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes.
> 
> Notes on names and language:  
> Anadûne - Númenor  
> Avalô(i) - Vala(r)  
> Only a couple of the Ainur have Adûnaic names, so for consistency's sake I'm leaving them all in Quenya (except for Sauron/Zigûr of course). If anyone knows where I can find fanmade Adûnaic names for the Valar whose names Tolkien didn't translate, please do let me know - I adore this stuff.

The temple was full of supplicants tonight, but the crowd flowed away on either side as Tar-Míriel passed, leaving a wide path for her to follow to the high priest’s throne. The woman who knelt now before Zigûr got to her feet, a trifle uncertainly, and stepped aside as the queen drew near. Zigûr did not spare the supplicant so much as a glance; his eyes had been on Tar-Míriel from the moment she had stepped inside.

She halted at the base of the throne and bowed – at least as queen she need not kneel to him. Zigûr inclined his head with a half-smile. “Whence this honor, my queen?” His voice was rich and musical.

She hated his voice. She hated everything about him, his long elegant fingers, his mocking smile, the fire burning in the depths of his eyes. When his gaze was leveled on her she felt as if she were nothing but a body – as if he saw straight through her skin, down to muscle and viscera and bone, and laughed to himself that she believed there was a soul within her as well. It made her throat close and her thoughts scatter; it made her want to entreat his pardon and flee. It made her want to forget her father, her honor, her pride, and bow before him in earnest if only it would gain his indulgence – and that was most frightening of all.

She straightened, planting her feet firmly on the marble floor. “I beg a favor, most honorable priest.”

He tilted his head. “What favor is that, my queen?”

She must take care now. She must take dreadful care, to plead for her cousin without imperiling herself. Zigûr knew of her sympathies for the Faithful – if she should overextend, say something he might take as an insult or a challenge –

She swallowed painfully. Answer him now or turn and leave, and forget Meryavaldo. “I hardly dare to ask it, most honorable priest, for it is so bold as to appear presumptuous. Yet I am bound to speak.”

“Then speak, my queen.”

“I have a cousin who is dear to me, whom your justice has condemned to death. I ask your lenience, that his fault may die and he himself be spared.”

Zigûr’s smile broadened. “And how should I perform such a wonder? Faults have no blood to spill, no hearts to burn. I should not be fitted to be Lord Melkor’s priest, if my charge were to send him the faults of criminals without their lives. Yet if you will tell me, my queen, how I may slay your cousin’s fault upon the altar and leave him living, then I will release him to you gladly.”

His eyes were burning into hers. She tried to stand straight, to speak above a whisper. “You are just, most honorable priest. I had a cousin, then.”

She turned to go; and in that moment, far off near the doors of the temple, on the border of the path still left open by the parted crowd, she saw Adûnabêl. He was standing quite still, arms wrapped about himself, leaning forward a little to see past the wall of humanity of which he was a part; and he was watching her, his eyes wide and his mouth a little open, his gaze as constant as Zigûr’s own that burned into her back. Before she could look away, the young man met her eyes.

She stood for a moment frozen, knowing who waited behind her, knowing she could leave now, wait for the execution, mourn awhile, cease mourning, at last remember Meryavaldo only occasionally with a pang of sorrow swiftly eased. She was capable of it. She had done it before.

As slow as if she were moving through water, she turned around again.

Zigûr sat unmoved and smiling. Tar-Míriel pinned her shoulders back, took a short, sharp breath through her nose, and said, “But must he die?”

“He must, my queen.”

“Yet it is in your power to pardon him.”

“Yes, my queen,” said Zigûr softly. “And I will not do it.”

“Yet you might,” she pressed him, though she was beginning to tremble. “You might spare him, and do no harm to yourself, or Anadûne, or – Lord Melkor’s worship. And doing so you would grant your queen great joy.”

“I have sentenced him. It is too late.”

“Too late?” Perhaps fear was sending her a little out of her senses, for she had to hold back an incredulous laugh. “Why, no; as you have sentenced him, so you may revoke the sentence. And such magnanimity would not diminish your glory but increase it!”

“I seek no glory,” he said, sitting on his golden throne – and she was sure he saw the way her mouth twitched as she smothered another laugh, for his eyes narrowed and his smile vanished. “My queen, you waste your breath. In all humility I advise you go.”

“Were you not shown mercy?” Tar-Míriel cried, and knew at once it had been the wrong thing to say. Zigûr’s eyes flew wide, and the fire in them flared so brightly that Tar-Míriel stumbled back, blinking against the glowing afterimage. Still there was no unsaying what had been said, and as she could not turn back she plunged onward, clenching her hands in the fabric of her skirt to keep them from shaking. “Did my husband not show you mercy, when you knelt at his feet before your gates? Does he not even now show you mercy – for are you not he who named himself the King of Men, and boasted that he would drive the Sea-kings from the shores of Middle-earth? And Ar-Pharazôn has spared you, and even given you honor, though you coveted the lands and peoples to whom he is as a father! Will you not then spare my cousin, who has not coveted his king’s realm but only the daughter of a single lord therein?”

There was a breath of silence between them, edged by the anxious murmuring of the crowd. Then Zigûr spoke. “You are right,” he said mildly.

Tar-Míriel stared.

“The king did show me mercy,” Zigûr went on. “And had your cousin wronged _me,_ then that were cause to spare him, as you say. But I am not the father whose authority he usurped; that is one of my fellow-subjects. Would it be just, tell me – would it be right – would it be dutiful in me, to pardon in my king’s absence one who sows discord among his people, and robs his subjects not merely of their possessions but of their kin? Is this the service which he has deemed me worthy to provide him? Highly as I esteem you, my queen, my duty to my liege must outweigh your desires. If he whom I have sentenced were not your loved one but mine, still he would die tomorrow.”

Tar-Míriel stood for a moment frozen. Zigûr looked quite calm again; he smiled kindly, paternally down upon her. She could hardly gather her thoughts. Tomorrow –? Tomorrow, upon the altar, so soon after arrest – she had not even visited Meryavaldo yet. Tomorrow – it was not a day held holy by Melkor’s worshippers. There was no reason – it would not have been so, if she had not come, if she had not –

“Ai,” she said softly, “spare him.”

This was her fault. She had angered the man who held her cousin’s life in his hands, and he meant to punish her through Meryavaldo. The unfairness of it sat in her chest like a stone. She had not even said anything that was not held by the crown to be true. But there were two kinds of truth in Númenor: that which the crown proclaimed for the sake of Pharazôn’s pride, and that which the people lived out for the sake of Zigûr’s. In voicing the first too boldly, she had fallen foul of the second.

And of course, no one dared to think of speaking the truth upheld by reason – not even those who saw the twistedness at the heart of the kingdom. Not even her.

She was so tired.

But if she could yet undo this one mistake – if she could win back for her cousin a few days of life – that would not be a victory, not really, but it was still worth trying for. Still worth humbling herself for, since those days had been lost to him through her own careless words – though the words she must offer now in reparation stuck in her throat.

She bowed her head. “Please,” she said. “A few days, please, most honorable priest. Let him prepare for death.” She spread her hands. “You have shown that mercy to many of the condemned. Show it to him. I beg you.”

“He is not to die for his own benefit, my queen, but for the benefit of Anadûne. Tell me, what will it profit the people to delay a sacrifice pleasing to the Giver of Freedom?”

“Yet for pity’s sake,” she whispered, and hated herself for it. For this was Sauron the Terrible who sat enthroned before her – Sauron out of the Great Histories, who brought Gorlim the Unhappy to treason by lies and torment, who gave as prey to his wolves the companions of Beren One-handed and King Felagund, who bore into battle as a standard the corpse of Lord Celebrimbor who once had trusted him. And when, in all those years, in all those tales, had he ever acted _for pity’s sake_?

But what else was there left for her to say?

“Pity it is that spurs me on,” said Zigûr. “Pity for Anadûne, and for all those that might, if I wavered now, be tempted to follow in your cousin’s footsteps. Yes, and for your cousin too, who will never again dishonor himself by committing such a wrong. Be satisfied. He dies tomorrow. Be content, my queen.”

Zigûr was still smiling, for all the world as if he cared about her, but she could read the message in his burning eyes. _Go home, little queen. Learn, and go home, and do not challenge me again._ And she understood. There was no apology, no atonement she could offer that would sway him from his course, because this was not a punishment. This was a lesson.

All at once her despair turned to fury. How _dare_ he think of her so? How dare he rob her even of the dignity of being his enemy? If he thought she was truly the powerless doll-queen Pharazôn had set her up to be – if he thought she could offer him no true resistance, however weak, however fruitless – if he thought the opposition she had shown him today was so empty he could treat it as no more than a child’s tantrum, to be disciplined for propriety’s sake and not out of any fear of harm –

 _then thus far_ , she thought bitterly, _he has been right._

_No more._

“It is good,” she said, “most honorable priest _,_ to have the power of an Avalô, but it is tyrannous to wield it as _you say_ the Avalôi do. Is it not so?” Her voice rose; she did not pause to hear his answer. “If the great among us could storm as Ulmo or as wild Ossë do, they would raise such waves against their foes that Anadûne herself would founder, and though all her people perished in the wreck those who called up the storm would count it as victory still, seeing their strength so much greater than that of their enemies.

“Do you say that Meryavaldo would die tomorrow no matter who he was – even though he were your own loved one? Then I wonder that we do not all stand knee-deep in blood! For the only unusual thing about my cousin’s crime is what manner of man he is who committed it. But that does make a difference, does it not? A mistake in one man is a misdeed in another. A careless word in a royal councilor’s mouth is blasphemy in a peasant’s. Anger becomes a high priest better than a supplicant queen – _is it not so, most honorable priest?_ ”

He had remained very still during her tirade, his smile gone, his face unreadable. Now, as she paused for breath, he stood, tapping the long fingers of one hand lightly against the arm of his throne. “I wonder, my queen,” he said, almost lightly, “I do wonder why you say these things to me.”

“Do you not know?” Tar-Míriel returned. “It is natural for authority to be tempted by partiality, but it is better than natural – it is honorable – to turn aside from the temptation. If any others have died on the altar for a crime like my cousin’s, then let him die in their company. But if none have, then spare him, as you have spared every youth who has done such a deed since this temple was raised – for I am certain that there have been many. Spare him, and show yourself honorable; or slay him, and reveal to all Anadûne that you are a partial and an unjust judge.”

Zigûr had taken the hearts of the Faithful on plenty of other flimsy pretexts, but she knew no victim before Meryavaldo had been condemned for this one. Not that the strength of her argument would do either her cousin or herself any good. But as she had doomed them both already by beginning this debate, she would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that if there had been any justice remaining in Númenor, any strength in words to stand against brute power, she would have won.

For an unbearably long moment Zigûr was silent. “You speak well, my queen,” he said at last. “I will consider what you have said. Come to me tomorrow and I will answer you.” Abruptly he smiled again, with teeth; and he bowed, very correctly, and beckoned the woman who had been petitioning him when Tar-Míriel arrived to approach his throne once more.

Tar-Míriel took a breath, and bowed in return. Then she turned her back on him, and began the long walk through the crowd to the open air beyond the temple’s great doors. She could feel Zigûr’s gaze searing into her flesh, even as the other woman began her supplication again, but she kept her shoulders straight and refused to look behind her.

She glanced at Adûnabêl as she passed him. He ducked his head respectfully, and then, looking up at her again, he mouthed a silent, fervent _thank you._

There was so much relief in his eyes it burned her. He was very, very young.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Discussion of human sacrifice  
> Passing mentions of mild gore  
> Elizabethan era-typical views on sexual ethics
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	3. As We Stand in Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes.

Tar-Míriel sent her lady’s-maid away as soon as she reached her chambers, dispatching her to tell the court that the queen was unwell and not to be troubled. As soon as Inzil was gone, she threw herself full-length upon her bed and buried her face in the bedspread.

She was a fool. A fool, to keep pushing when it had become clear that Zigûr would not listen. A fool, to let her pride spur her to open defiance when she knew the effort would achieve nothing but her ruin. A fool, to be lulled in the first place by Adûnabêl’s optimistic naivety. _You could convince him, people say you’re silver-tongued –_ what senseless drivel! If she had been so silver-tongued, Pharazôn would not now hold the scepter, and she would not be lying here trying to prepare herself to die.

For she was going to die tomorrow – or if not tomorrow, then before the month was out. Unless Zigûr came up with something worse to do to her; she could not think of anything herself that would be useful to him, but he was inventive. She shuddered.

 _Still_ , she thought, _he will probably kill me_. Perhaps he’d convict her of treason – it would be easy enough for him to spin a story the people would believe, what with her unguarded anger yesterday and the dubious company she kept. Then it would be death on the altar, her heart cut out for Melkor to eat. She only hoped none of her kin at Rómenna would be implicated alongside her. That would be just like Zigûr – kill two birds with one stone. One knife. She would not be able to help them. She had proven that thoroughly enough today.

Or perhaps, if he wanted to avoid unrest among the Faithful, it would be subtler – poison mimicking illness, or some dark spell that sapped her strength to nothing, or even an apparent suicide. He could do that at any time – tomorrow, when she went to see him, or even tonight if he wished. If he preferred to have her executed publicly, he might wait until Pharazôn had returned. It would not do to deprive the king of his wife without his permission.

She noticed then that she was weeping. And that was foolish too – for one thing, it had not the slightest chance of saving her. And for another, wasn’t she Faithful in her heart? Didn’t she look out on the Meneltarma on every holy day, longing to climb it and observe the rituals as her father had done? _Death is a Gift – a Gift – a Gift._ She would not go to Melkor but to Eru, whatever Zigûr said. Ai, but she was a coward, and she did not want to suffer, and though she was no King’s Man yet she feared to go into the dark! And what would Eru have to say to her, she who had accused Zigûr of partiality but had not dared to speak out until it was her own cousin’s life at stake – and who had not managed to save even him? What kind of queen had she been to poor Númenor? She should have – long ago she should have –

She did not know what it was she should have done.

“My queen? Are you –”

She startled badly at the sound. “Oh. Inzil,” she said, as soon as she had collected herself enough to recognize the voice of her lady’s-maid. She sat up on the bed. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No,” said Inzil uncertainly. “My queen, can I – fetch you anything – ?”

 _The aid of the Valar._ “No,” she said, “no, nothing. Or – yes, some watered wine, please. Thank you.” She made a shooing motion. Inzil stared at her for a moment longer before hurrying off.

When her maid had gone, Tar-Míriel scrubbed hard at her face with the heels of her hands. This self-pity was absurd. She had suspected for a long time that her death would not be a natural one; there was no need for her to fall to pieces and humiliate herself in front of Inzil merely because her suspicions had been confirmed. She was a queen and the daughter of kings, and the blood of Lúthien Tinúviel flowed in her veins. If she was going to be killed, then she was going to do it without sniveling. And that, she thought with a flash of bleak satisfaction, was more than Pharazôn would ever accomplish.

She was still crying. Somehow she could not stop, but beneath the tears she hardened her expression into a resolute mask. She stood, smoothing out her crumpled dress as best she could, and ran her hands over her hair, feeling the places where it had come loose of the pins that secured it. That did not really matter; nor did the dress. No one would see her tonight but Inzil. Still, she thought firmly, it would not do. Crossing the room to sit at her dressing-table, she began to take down her hair; she would have Inzil pin it up more securely when she returned. She ought to have asked for washing water as well, for the tearstains. But then, she could not do anything about those until she was no longer weeping.

She did not stop weeping that night.

-

The next day dawned hot and hazy. Tar-Míriel dressed and ate with wooden efficiency; then, just at the door to her chambers, she found herself standing frozen.

Was there anything else she ought to do – _before_? Surely there was something. She had not made an appearance at court for a while, but that did not really matter. If she survived the day, there would be time enough to resume her ordinary duties before the blow fell; if she did not, the prospect of missing one last encounter with her husband’s nest of sycophants was not chief among her concerns.

But there were people whom she would like to see again before she died. Her cousins in Rómenna – but that was too far to reach in a day, and anyway she could not risk entangling them in her downfall. Meryavaldo, though – he was beyond that danger, and she really had a duty to visit him. Yet she hesitated. She would have to tell him what she had done, how her recklessness had cut days from his life. It was likely he would be furious – and then perhaps she would go to see Zigûr and be slain then and there, and that would be the last she ever saw of her cousin. But no – they would go beyond the world, the two of them, and perhaps in death they would meet and he would offer his forgiveness.

But if they were to meet in death, why should she not wait until then to ask his pardon? That was craven, she knew. But if she visited him now she could offer him no comfort – in telling him what she had done she would only increase his anguish. And she herself would spend her courage in making her confession and bearing his anger, so that perhaps her fear would overcome her before Zigûr and she would die shamefully. She could not risk that. It was selfish of her – but she could not risk that.

She had no other family she cared to see – none living. She could visit her father’s tomb – but even as the thought crossed her mind she recoiled from it. He was not in that place; neither should his body be. It should have been given to the Sea in faith, as had her mother’s. What they had done to it instead was desecration – a mockery of both death and life.

If she died for treason her corpse would never find the Sea, but neither would it be laid out in any tomb. That was some little comfort.

In the end she did not go to find anyone except Inzil, who was watering the plants on the balcony. “If they ask you,” she said stiffly, “testify against me.” Then she fled, before her astonished lady’s-maid could offer her any reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Mention of human sacrifice  
> Passing mention of mild gore
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	4. O Injurious Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's quite short, alas. Tomorrow's will be fairly long, though!
> 
> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes as usual.

Tar-Míriel had prayed last night. She had not done so in too long a time, and she had almost panicked when she reached for the words of a traditional prayer and found them gone from her memory. She had caught at another, and then another, _knowing_ that she knew them, hearing their cadences in her mind, feeling their shapes in her mouth, yet unable to give them voice. “Ai, Eru, help me,” she had cried at last, and then her tongue had found the words to follow, words from out of childhood, from a hymn that she had not been trying to recall:

“…and I will not be afraid.

Though the waters rise up to seize me,

Though the fire roars about me like a dragon,

Though the fire encircles me and seeks my life,

Eru help me, and I will not be afraid.”

She had fallen silent then, and wished that she were brave enough to make it true.

Now, as she passed beneath the heavy golden archway of Melkor’s temple, she could hear the hymn echoing faintly in her mind. It was something to cling to.

Zigûr was not on his throne. Today was not a day for supplicants; the temple was empty but for a handful of worshipers huddled on their knees before the altar, and a few robed attendants cleaning trimming lamps and dusting statues and scrubbing out the interiors of iron basins. Tar-Míriel had left her own attendants outside the door; she did not want anyone involved in this who did not need to be.

Seeing her, one of the temple attendants left his task and approached, kneeling briefly before her on the smooth marble floor. “My queen. Do you come seeking audience with the high priest?”

“I do.” A flicker of pride ran through her, hearing the steadiness of her voice.

“Follow, my queen.” The man set off swiftly through the temple. Tar-Míriel followed, trying to avoid the appearance of trotting at his heels.

He led her silently across the temple’s great expanse. The lamps were burning low, throwing long shadows across the floor; Tar-Míriel shivered as she passed beneath them. The attendant led her past the altar – she held her breath against the stink of blood – then through a plain door set into the far wall, and finally down a long corridor with many branching passages, none of which they took. At last the corridor ended at a door of ebony inlaid with gold.

“I will announce you, my queen,” said the attendant. “Wait here.” And opening the door he slipped through and shut it again behind him.

Tar-Míriel wondered whether he thought it was proper to give her orders so long as he used her title beforehand, or whether he simply did not care.

She moved closer to the door. The wood was thick; she could hear no more than murmurs from the other side. But there seemed to be more than two voices. One stood out from the rest – a woman’s, high and nervous.

The door opened, and Tar-Míriel hastily stepped back.

A pair of temple attendants came out, acknowledging her presence only by cursory bows. Behind them walked a woman robed in black, her head lowered. Her unbound hair draped limply over her shoulders, reaching almost to the curve of her swollen belly.

Tar-Míriel started. This was Narûphêl.

The young woman looked up at the movement, and her eyes widened. At once she turned to face the queen, dropping heavily to her knees. The temple attendants paused, looking back at her over their shoulders. A third attendant, emerging from the doorway behind her, made to reach for her and pull her to her feet, but he hesitated when he saw to whom she knelt.

Narûphêl met Tar-Míriel’s eyes. “I crave your pardon, my queen. For I know I have brought misfortune upon your kinsman whom I love as dearly as myself, though _I know not how great the misfortune may be._ ” She tilted her head a fraction to one side, still staring directly into the queen’s eyes. Her own eyes were wide and questioning.

Ah. Tar-Míriel could give her an answer to that question, though it would bring her little comfort. “I grant you my pardon, though my kinsman is under a sentence of death upon the altar,” she said, her voice as gentle as she could make it.

Narûphêl’s face crumpled. Tar-Míriel tried to communicate sympathy with her eyes. She could do no more for her; speaking of her present errand would provide only false reassurance. Whatever came of the meeting that awaited her, it would not be a pardon for Meryavaldo.

“Thank you, my queen,” said Narûphêl, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She gave her arm to the third attendant; he helped her to her feet, and she went away slowly down the corridor, flanked by her guardians or guards.

Only after Narûphêl was gone did Tar-Míriel realize the ebony door yet stood open. Just inside the doorway waited the attendant who had led her here. When she looked toward him he beckoned, bowing his head with a smile. “The high priest will receive you now, my queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Passing mention of human sacrifice
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	5. Or Else to Let Him Suffer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is definitely the darkest chapter I've written so far, possibly the darkest in the whole work - just a head's-up!
> 
> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes as usual.
> 
> Notes on names and language:  
> Adûnâim - Númenoreans  
> Anadûne - Númenor  
> (Ar-)Zimraphêl - (Tar-)Míriel's official royal name  
> Avalô(i) - Vala(r)  
> Eruhin - child of Eru  
> Thee/thou/thy - **informal** second person pronouns

The room beyond the door was not large. It was more an office than a throne-room; the walls were lined with bookshelves rather than tapestries, and the arched ceiling was plain and bare. Stairs ran up to a dais at the back of the room, and there Zigûr sat behind an oaken writing-table, his hands folded before him. He rose as Tar-Míriel entered, dipping his head to her with a smile. “My queen.”

“Most honorable priest,” said Tar-Míriel, bowing.

“My _courteous_ queen,” said Zigûr, his smile broadening. “Come, approach. I have made my decision. Leave us to speak in private,” he added, giving a dismissive gesture to the attendant who had brought Tar-Míriel here.

Tar-Míriel inhaled sharply, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder as the man departed. She heard the door shut behind him with a sharp _click_.

She did not suppose she would have been any safer if he had stayed. Still her spine prickled as she turned back to face Zigûr. They were alone now in the room.

Zigûr came slowly around from behind his writing-table, long fingers tracing its edges as he passed. He stopped at the front of the dais, steepling his hands before him. “My queen,” he said, “your cousin cannot live.”

“Even so, most honorable priest,” said Tar-Míriel, hoping against hope that this was a dismissal. She took a step backward – and Zigûr raised a hand.

“Yet he may live a while _,_ ” he said softly. “Perhaps as long as you.”

Now they came to his purpose, Tar-Míriel thought, her stomach sinking. But what _was_ that purpose? Was it mockery – was he hinting that he meant to sacrifice her alongside Meryavaldo? Or was it a trick, meant to coax a certain response from her? What response was he seeking, then – and what would he do if she gave it?

“You are quiet, my queen,” said Zigûr, tilting his head slightly. “Let me be clear. Your cousin must die, and he must die under my sentence. Still he may have a long reprieve.”

“How long?” Tar-Míriel ventured.

Zigûr laughed. It was a cheerful sound, bright and musical. Tar-Míriel flinched.

Still smiling, Zigûr came slowly down the stairs from the dais. Tar-Míriel braced her feet against the floor, forcing herself to remain in place as he approached her. She would not retreat from him.

But he stopped again before he came too near. “Your cousin has committed a great wrong,” he said, his face growing grave as suddenly as he had laughed. “All who commit such evils deserve to die for them.”

“Yet most do not,” said Tar-Míriel automatically. Her mouth was dry, but she refused to look away from Zigûr’s face. Or did she? She could not quite tell whether it was her own pride or the fire gleaming behind his eyes that held her gaze locked in place.

“Tell me then,” said Zigûr swiftly, “which would you prefer? That I should justly take your cousin’s life, or that you yourself should give up your body?”

“My body?” Tar-Míriel’s brow furrowed. “To die in his place, for his crime…” Was that what he was proposing? It was more – she hated to apply the word _generous_ to such a bargain, but that it was a bargain at all was more than she had expected of him.

“I speak not of your death, my queen!” cried Zigûr, as though shocked. “Lord Melkor defend your life. No, but I ask you this – that which is compelled, how can it be a crime?”

He was trying to bewilder her. “What are you saying?” She meant to speak sharply, but her voice would not obey her.

“Saying, my queen? Why, I am saying nothing – I speak in hypotheticals. Here is one: I have sentenced your cousin to death. To him you owe familial duty. Might there not be virtue in doing wrong to save him?”

“It would not be wrong to save him,” said Tar-Míriel. Her voice shook, though she tried to hold it steady. The gleam in his eyes was like that of a cat’s, stalking its prey in the dark. What was he implying? Did she have a chance to save Meryavaldo after all?

Hope too felt like a trap.

“It would be wrong and right at once,” said Zigûr, and came a step closer.

“If it is wrong,” she said, all in a breath, “then it is _my_ wrong, for I petitioned you for it. If it is wrong to save his life, if it is a crime against – Lord Melkor, then let it be accounted to me and not to you – I’ll gladly risk that, if you’ll spare him –”

“My queen.” Zigûr raised a hand, and Tar-Míriel fell abruptly silent. “You do not follow what I am saying. I thought you subtler than this.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you are only pretending naivety. I would advise against it.”

“I pretend nothing,” said Tar-Míriel lowly. Did he call her naive? Did he _dare_ – then she almost laughed. Of course he dared. Why should he not? She could do nothing in retribution.

“Hm.” He raised a brow, just slightly, and walked again towards her; but as she braced herself not to shrink away from him, he altered his course, just slightly, and passed her by. She stood very still, resisting the urge to turn as he walked to keep him in her view.

His voice came again from behind her. “I’ll speak more plainly, then.”

 _Please do,_ she thought, with as much scorn as she could muster through her fear.

“Your cousin is to die.” He came back into view on her other side, turning to pass in front of her. He was circling her.

“Yes,” she said, when he seemed to await a response. For the length of that one syllable she could hold her voice steady.

“By condemnation of the law.”

“Yes.”

“Say for the sake of argument that there were one and only one way to save his life.” His eyes remained fixed on her as he walked. “Say, my queen, that you were desired carnally by one who, either by his friendship with me or by his own high standing, could deliver your cousin from the just penalty of the law. Say that you had a choice: either to give yourself bodily to this supposed person, or to let your cousin suffer. What would you do?”

Desired by one who. Desired by. Did he – No. No. He taunted her about Pharazôn. He must be taunting her about Pharazôn. Otherwise – there was no otherwise. _No._

“I would not do it,” she said hoarsely. “Not to save his life – not even to save my own.”

“Then your cousin must die.”

“Better that,” she said. There were a thousand ways in which he would never understand, but – “ _Better that_ – cheaper that by far than that I should – better –” She swallowed. Her limbs felt cold. “Yes, he must die.”

“Interesting.” He paused before her, his brow furrowed, tapping the tip of his index finger against his mouth. A parody of thoughtfulness. “Then you condemn him as readily as does the law you slander.”

“ _No._ ” This was too far. Her anger kindling, she met his eyes again; at once the fire in them flared up to meet her, so powerful she stumbled a half-step backwards, but she clung to her thought and to her ire, she held them away from the blaze – “One pardon is free, the other bought; one is mercy, the other a mockery of it; one would save a life, the other violate a soul. How –” _How dare you,_ she wanted to say, but the words caught in her throat. It was becoming more difficult to think. That fire burned on, burned inwards…

“What,” said Zigûr lightly – “is it such a great matter? It was not so only a little while ago, when it was your cousin’s deeds we spoke of.”

“He was wrong.” She gritted her teeth. “I have said that he was wrong – you have heard me say –” Had he? Had she? Memory warped and bubbled in her mind. “Perhaps – perhaps I have not said it, but –”

“Ah.” Zigûr smiled indulgently. His eyes did not waver from her own. “I understand. It is difficult sometimes, is it not, to say quite what you intend? I forgive the omission. You are only human.”

“Only human,” she murmured. Why had she echoed him? Her temples throbbed.

“And therefore frail,” said Zigûr gently. “So were you made. So are you meant to be.”

“Meant to –” She caught her tongue between her teeth and held it there. Fire – his eyes – she must –

“ _Meant to be;_ and so be frail, my queen. You have your faults, as does your cousin. Be you a woman, as he is a man. Be that you are. Be frail, my queen. Be mortal.”

“I –” With a great wrench of effort she closed her eyes. Two spots of fire lingered in her sight. “Tell me what you mean, honor…able priest. I do not understand.”

She heard him sigh; heard him move, footsteps sharp against the marble floor. His voice came from just beside her ear. _“Give yourself to me.”_

She flinched. Footsteps again. He was behind her. “Give yourself to me, my queen, as your cousin gave himself to his lover.”

Footsteps. He was circling her again, far more tightly than before. A fold of his robe brushed across the back of her hand. She swallowed with difficulty, squeezed her eyes tight to banish the glowing afterimage of his eyes. “As my cousin did? You say he’ll die for it.”

“Not, my queen, if you give me love.” From just before her. His breath on her face. She shrank away, but he was already moving again.

“You are testing me,” she whispered. “Testing me – for Pharazôn –”

He laughed, sharp-edged. Beside her. Behind her. She could not tell. “You know that I am not.”

This was – he – ai Valar – _ai Eru_ –

something in her strengthened, faintly, so faintly, but –

“I will tell him,” she cried, and the words tore through some barrier in her chest. She heaved a shuddering breath; her eyes flew open, and she saw Zigûr standing, not close by as she had felt him, but upon the dais on the other side of the room. His bright eyes burned down upon her; she did not meet them with her own, but she did not shut her eyes again, and she did not turn her face aside. “I will tell my husband of this,” she pressed on, “and all his servants, and all his soldiery – sign me at once a pardon for my cousin, or I will tell all Anadûne _what thou art –_ ”

“Who will believe thee, Zimraphêl?”

She had not realized that she had stopped using the polite address until she heard him do the same. With it had gone the last vestiges of his pretended courtesy; his voice was like the glinting of flame on the edge of a blade, like the glow of red-hot iron, fair and terrible. “I am high priest to the Lord Melkor. I am the servant of Anadûne; I am her king’s foremost advisor. I am wise and just and merciful; I am he who brought freedom to the Men of the West, and I am he who will guide them to immortality. Thou wast seditious from childhood, a lover of Elves, whinging slave of the Avalôi and their sycophants. What power is left thee is the relic of a past long since discarded by all true Adûnâim, remembered only by a few rebels who search desperately through moldering Elven histories for a reason to believe themselves significant. Thou art half-suspected of treason already; speak against me and all Anadûne will know thee for what _thou_ art, rebel and slanderer. One choice is thine and one only: yield up thy body to my will and so redeem thy cousin, or watch him die. He will die slowly, and he will die before thine eyes, for I will call thee to the sacrifice with thy court, and thou shalt do obeisance to the Lord Melkor and watch in silence. I will draw it out for days _,_ Zimraphêl, and add another for every defiance thou showest me – and when I take his heart at last I will grant thee the honor of bearing it in thy hands to the basin to be burned.” He tilted his head. “Or give thyself to me as I ask, and he shall suffer no injury.”

Tar-Míriel’s throat was dry as death. She had not thought – somehow she had not thought, in all her fears of sacrifice or worse, that he would use her cousin – that he would use Meryavaldo to – ai, she must not weep, not now! But she felt the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, and she knew by the triumph on his face that Zigûr had seen them –

No – _no_ – she was queen of Númenor, daughter of the line of Lúthien – she was Eruhin, she _would not_ – “Better to slay me now _,_ ” she cried out. _“_ Better to slay me now, _Sauron,_ or –”

“Or what?” All at once he stood only a handspan from her, though she could not remember seeing him move. “What wilt thou do? Thou callest me by the name the rebel Elves gave to me; thou knowest what I did to them when they came into my power. ‘ _Cruel in strength, lord of werewolves; his dominion was torment.’_ They knew me better than they desired.” He laughed. “Little Zimraphêl. Those whom I do not wish to slay, I do not slay; those whom I do not wish to slay _yet,_ they too remain alive. I can make thy cousin’s death last _weeks_. Shall I do so?”

He raised a hand slowly to her face, letting it linger a bare inch away from her skin. She could not speak, could not move, could not breathe. She did not know where to turn her eyes to escape his burning gaze, but if she closed them again she would not be able to see what he was doing, and that would be worse. He was so near. Heat radiated from him, thick and suffocating. The skin of her cheek burned with the closeness of his hovering hand.

She wanted to flinch away. Her muscles would not obey her.

Zigûr smiled at her. “Do not fear, my queen,” he said – gently, kindly. “I will not touch you until you tell me that I may.”

He lowered his hand, and turned, and swept away. “Answer me tomorrow,” he said, pausing a moment by the door. “Or I shall assume you have chosen against your cousin, and I shall begin.”

He left her alone in the room.

After a minute, an attendant came to escort her from the temple. He raised his brows at the sight of her tear-streaked face, but made no comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Attempted sexual coercion  
> Sexual intimidation/harassment  
> Discussion of human sacrifice and torture (not explicitly gory)  
> Passing mention of gore  
> Elizabethan era-typical views on sexual ethics
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	6. Is There No Remedy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes as usual.
> 
> Notes on names and language:  
> Thee/thou/thy - informal second person pronouns

It was nearly nightfall by the time Tar-Míriel could make herself leave her chambers once more. She would not have left them then, but her duty to Meryavaldo could not now be denied. She must tell him of the fate she had brought upon him, and if she could, she must prepare him to face it with courage. That was all she could give him now in recompense for what she had brought on him. The desperate half-plan that had come to her as she stood alone and weeping in Zigûr’s office had failed her at the outset - and the choice Zigûr himself had placed before her was no choice at all.

The entrance to the prison was within the temple. Tar-Míriel’s skin crawled as she crossed the great marble floor, past the basins and the throne and the altar wreathed in shadow. She let the iron knocker fall twice against the prison door, and waited an uneasy minute until the provost opened the door to her and ushered her through.

Within, the air was close and stifling; the high ceiling was stained black with the smoke of the torches that lit the place. The provost bowed to her, and kept his eyes lowered in deference as he straightened. When he spoke, his voice was a trifle shaky. “How may I serve you, my queen?”

“I come to visit Lord Meryavaldo,” she said. “Bring me to him.”

The provost bowed his assent.

Their footsteps echoed strangely in the narrow hall. On either side there was a row of iron-plated doors, neatly numbered, evenly and rather tightly spaced along the walls. In the center of each door a number was engraved in thick strokes; above each number there was a small, grated window. Over some of the windows metal plates had been fastened.

But for their footfalls and the soft crackling of the torches, the silence remained mostly unbroken. Occasionally, though, there were sounds from one cell or another, so quiet that Tar-Míriel could hardly hear them, let alone identify them. A rat, perhaps, scurrying across the floor – or something scraping gently and rhythmically against the stone – or someone’s breathing, swift and shallow.

She did not try to make anything out in the darkness beyond the cell windows.

Although passages branched off from their corridor at regular intervals, they did not turn until they had reached its far end. Then the provost led her down the passage to their left – somewhat narrower than the one they were leaving, and not quite so well-lit. They passed two more turnings; then, just after they had rounded the corner of a third, the provost halted.

“Forty-eight,” the provost said. “This is his cell, my queen.”

The cell door looked like any other, and nothing was visible in the gloom beyond the window. But before the echo of the provost’s voice had died away, from within the cell there came a cry of incredulous delight. “Ai, bless Adûnabêl and all his house! _You came!_ ”

Tar-Míriel swallowed. Her limbs felt cold.

The provost thumped the door with his fist, making it rattle. “Address your queen respectfully!” he growled.

This, at least, Tar-Míriel knew how to manage. “I did not command you to censure him for me,” she said crisply, and watched his face fall, the dark flush spreading across his cheeks. Then, because she could certainly not have this conversation while a buffoon of a jailor stood by eavesdropping, she said, “You are dismissed. When I have finished conversing with my cousin, I will return to the prison entrance; I remember the way. You may wait there to unlock the outer door for me.”

The provost began to stammer something about _visitors must be supervised at all times_. Tar-Míriel leveled him with her haughtiest glare. “Am I an ordinary visitor?”

“No,” said the provost hastily. “No, of course not, my queen – I only –”

“Then do me the courtesy of assuming I can supervise myself,” Tar-Míriel said severely. “ _You are dismissed.”_

The provost fled. Tar-Míriel waited until the echoing of his footsteps had faded away. Then, her chest tight, she approached the cell door.

Meryavaldo was standing with the tip of his nose almost poking out the window, his fingers folded awkwardly through a square of the gridded bars. And he was smiling, his face shining with disbelieving joy. Tar-Míriel’s heart thumped hard. That he should be this happy – pressing her lips hard together, she steadied herself with a hand against the door and lowered her head for a moment.

When she looked up, Meryavaldo’s smile had slipped a little – only a little. “Well,” he said brightly. “Well, cousin, what’s the comfort?”

Tar-Míriel gave a short breath, half a laugh, and tried to collect herself. She must not break down. Her cousin was younger than she, and less hardened, and his suffering was to be greater far than hers. How was he meant to hold his courage if in the face of his fate not even she could do so?

She sighed, and forced a tight smile to flicker across her face. “The comfort is this,” she said: “that Eru awaits you, and will receive you beyond the circles of the world, and heal you of all your pain.”

Meryavaldo stared at her, frozen, the shattered remains of his smile lingering on his face. “You could do nothing?” he said at last, very quietly.

Tar-Míriel forced herself to meet his eyes. There was no use in dancing around the point. Still it was several moments before she could summon the will to speak. “I tried,” she said at last, her voice taut. “I spoke hastily – unwisely – Zigûr was offended, and –” The words caught in her throat. She swallowed. Forced them out. “He means to torture you to death.”

Meryavaldo’s face drained of blood. He shook his head once, mutely, as though by his refusal he could stop it from being true. Tar-Míriel raised her hand to the window, and he caught hold of her fingers as best he could through the bars, pressing them hard into the gridded metal with the strength of his grip. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but made only a soft animal sound, keening and desperate. Tar-Míriel saw the tears starting in his eyes. His lips moved in silence for several moments longer before he could find his words. “Is there no hope?” he whispered at last.

Tar-Míriel winced. “There is no hope –” She hesitated. But she could not lie to him now. “No hope,” she said, “that is worth the name.”

“But there _is –_ ” Meryavaldo’s grip on her fingers grew crushing. “There is something I can do?”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach tighten. She shifted, her gaze sliding away from his face. “Zigûr offered me a bargain,” she said. “Not one that I could take. Not one that you would have me take.”

“What is it?”

Still that naked desperation in his eyes, the haste of his speech sounding far too much like eagerness. Tar-Míriel swallowed. “He –”

And she stopped short, seeing the hunger on her cousin’s face. Her shoulders hunched beneath her cloak; she forced them down again, forced her breathing to slow. After a moment she found her voice. “If you were to consent to it,” she said, “consent to purchasing your life at such a price, it would mean the utter destruction of your honor.”

“But tell me what it _is!”_ Meryavaldo burst out.

Tar-Míriel flinched “Meryo,” she began – and it was as though simply by speaking the nickname she had called up the ghost of the sweet-faced child with whom she had played in the sands of the eastern beaches, in those long slow summer months before she knew either duty or pain _. Meryo, come chase the waves! What – fearest thou the Sea?_ He was her baby cousin again, and she – “Meryo,” she heard herself say, “I’m afraid –” and now words were pouring from her unstoppable, the pit of her chest uncorked and overflowing – “Ai, Meryo, thy fear frightens me! Wouldst choose to live, even – If I tell thee, and – Thou know’st Zigûr can do thee no harm that will last beyond death –”

“Stop!” Meryo cried, and she fell silent. Tears slid down his cheeks, and his mouth was trembling, but he raised his chin. “How am I meant to take courage from flowery nothings? If I _must_ die, then I – I shall meet Death as a bride, and – clasp it in my arms!”

“There spoke my mother’s kinsman!” Tar-Míriel cried, and the relief that coursed through her was so great that for a moment – only for a moment – it even made her smile. “Yes, thou must die,” she said. “Thou’rt too noble to consider such a bargain. Zigûr –” She shut her eyes for a moment. Gritted her teeth. “Zigûr offered to spare thy life if I would sleep with him.”

“No!” Meryo’s eyes widened.

“Tomorrow, he told me,” she said – “tomorrow I must answer yes, or he begins to kill thee. If there were ever a clearer sign that he is as much a liar as he always was – that he does not care what laws thou hast broken, only that thou art Faithful –!” She choked on the last syllable, and bowed her head, shaking with dry sobs.

“Thou shalt not do it,” Meryo said, and squeezed her hand as best he could with the gridded bars of the window between them.

The gesture recalled Tar-Míriel to herself. If she could not help breaking down again, at least she must put it off until later. Here and now, her duty was to give comfort, not receive it. She shook herself, swallowing down her sobs, and looked up again at Meryo. “If it were only my life he asked,” she said softly, “I’d give it.” _I would owe it to thee,_ she did not add. If she had not provoked Zigûr – but she had.

Meryavaldo’s eyes shimmered. “Ai, Míriel.”

“Ai, Meryo,” she echoed him. “Be ready – hold thy courage –”

“Yes,” he said, but his tone was distracted. His eyes left her face, darting from side to side. “He does not care what laws I have broken. Why should he slay me in vengeance for a thing he would do himself? He does not think it wrong, and – if Narûphêl and I had been Elves we would count as married already. _They_ think nothing of it, and they are wiser than we –”

“He does not think _what_ wrong?” Tar-Míriel said tardily. Something hard and sour was growing in the pit of her stomach.

Meryavaldo did not acknowledge that she had spoken. His gaze was glassy; his eyes were no longer fixed on her, but on some point in empty space just past her shoulder. “No, he does not think it wrong,” her cousin whispered. “It is only that I am Faithful – but if he hates me for that, why end by killing me? Why, if he will only be sending me to safety, to Eru – and he is of the Ainur – would he not know?”

“Meryo,” Tar-Míriel said slowly, “what art thou saying?”

“He will slay me on the altar.” Meryavaldo glanced sideways at Tar-Míriel, then looked away again. He wetted his lips. “It is a fearful thing.”

Tar-Míriel became conscious of the heat of his fingers against hers. He was clinging to her hand too tightly for her to pull away without effort. She swallowed. Shifted. “And to live by shame is a hateful one.”

“Yes,” said Meryavaldo, “ _yes,_ but to die, and go we know not where – if death is a Gift then why should Zigûr wish to kill us?” The pitch of his voice grew higher. “Why – and what _he_ says, that when he burns my heart I’ll go to Melkor – another scrap of meat for him to gnaw – forever – or until there’s nothing left –!” His voice gave way to a gasping sob.

“Thou dost not believe that,” Tar-Míriel burst out. “Tell me thou dost not –”

_“I don’t know!”_

Meryavaldo’s breast heaved with shuddering, irregular sobs. His grip on Tar-Míriel’s fingers had grown vicelike once again; she could feel the sweat gathering, warm and tacky, where their hands met. She winced. But she could not ask him to let go – not now.

“I don’t know,” her cousin repeated. He shut his eyes tight, and bowed his head, and standing perfectly still but for the shaking of his shoulders, he wept for a while in silence.

Tar-Míriel waited, trying not to weep again herself.

At last Meryavaldo opened his eyes once more. He raised them to Tar-Míriel’s face, his head still lowered so that he seemed to be looking up at his cousin despite his greater height. Tar-Míriel felt his hand trembling. For a long moment he stood looking at her, unspeaking, his lips slightly parted. Something, some quality of the light in his eyes, made her spine prickle, and she fought the urge to look away.

At last, very quietly, he spoke. “Sweet cousin, let me live.”

The words rang loud in Tar-Míriel’s ears. She felt caught in time, suspended between one moment and the next, the world reduced to her cousin’s voice and his pleading eyes and his hot hand closed tight about her fingers – and she had known, she had _known_ all his piling of words on words would lead them here in the end, but she had denied it, had refused to think it –

Dimly she realized he was still speaking. “It isn’t wrong,” he was saying – humbly, earnestly. “Surely it isn’t wrong – not if you do it to save your kinsman’s life –”

His head bowed, his eyes upturned to her, the return to the formal address – his hand, sweaty, clinging hard, her fingers growing numb, his own curled about them, knucklebones visible through the skin – holding her – tethering her – binding –

Convulsively she jerked away, tearing her hand from his grip. She stumbled backwards. Time shuddered into motion once more. Tar-Míriel felt the breath hiss past her teeth; she caught herself mid-stumble, and her voice returned.

 _“How dare you,”_ she screamed. “Beast! Coward! Faithless wretch! Is it not enough for _one_ cousin to use me, that still another –”

“No, but Míriel –”

“Sirrah, I am thy queen – address me so! What should I think of thee? Ai, I pray my uncle’s wife was false to him, for thou’rt no child of my mother’s line!”

“No, Míriel, listen –”

“Go to Melkor, then, if thou think’st thou wilt! Why should I care for thy fate when thou carest not at all for mine? Die on the altar! If I could pardon thee myself I would not do it. Coward! Flesh-peddler! Go to Melkor!”

“Ai, hear me, Míriel –”

With a wordless cry she lunged forward, slamming her hand against the door of his cell so that it rattled in its frame. Paying no heed to his startled cry, she whirled on her heel and strode away without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> \- Discussion of human sacrifice and torture (not gory)  
> \- Discussion of sexual coercion  
> \- Elizabethan era-typical views on sexual ethics
> 
> Thank you for reading! Please do leave a comment if you'd like.


	7. Vouchsafe a Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late, but here we are! ~~I ran out of buffer lol.~~ I'm going to say the next update will be November 30, though if my writing is unexpectedly prolific I'll probably be excited about it and post early.
> 
> Content notes for this chapter can be found in the endnotes as usual.

Tar-Míriel rounded the corner and froze. The man coming in the other direction did not react so quickly – he walked straight into her without so much as slowing down. She reeled backwards, caught her balance with a hand against the wall, heart already hammering in her throat – _what had he heard?_ Had she referred to herself as Faithful – said anything unambiguously seditious – named any names but Meryavaldo’s? Her rational mind caught up with her a moment later, and remembering that disaster had already found her she relaxed a little – but only a little. If she had learned anything from the past two days, it was that her situation was never so dire that it could grow no worse.

The man who had collided with her was very tall, with a warrior’s solid build; he had hardly stumbled at the impact. He bowed, his manner impeccably courtly. “My queen.”

She stared at him. He did not seem to realize that he had not apologized for running into her. “You have the advantage of me, I am afraid,” she said after a moment, donning her courtly manners like armor, letting them hide her unease. “Whom do I address?”

The corner of his mouth quirked slightly; then his expression was all stateliness and solemnity once more. “No one of great importance, my queen,” he said. “A servant of the king’s interests, charged with the inspection of this prison. My name is Thânikhôr. I would converse with you, if you are willing; the conversation may be to your benefit.”

Was that an oblique threat? She could not tell. But either way, refusing would gain her nothing. She nodded once, her throat tight. “I will speak with you.”

“Shall we take ourselves elsewhere than this dreary place?” Thânikhôr said. He took a step to the side and turned, inclining his head politely and ushering her forward with his arm as if through a door he held open for her.

Tar-Míriel narrowed her eyes. “Yes,” she said shortly. “Follow me.” Ignoring the arm he still held slightly bent as though expecting her to take it, she swept forward down the hall. Looking rather startled, he hurried to fall into step beside her.

For a while they walked in silence. Tar-Míriel studied her companion out of the corner of her eye. He was not dressed as a soldier, for all that he had the build of one. He wore a gentleman’s clothing, of fine but not extraordinary quality, cut in a loosely fitted style more popular in Rómenna than in Armenelos – yet he spoke with the affectations of a royal courtier. _A servant of the king’s interests,_ he had said he was. Certainly a spy, then, probably against the few Faithful in Armenelos if he wished to appear as though he hailed from Rómenna – but he was not interested in deceiving Tar-Míriel herself about his identity and role. That was curious. She had never interacted with him at court, so perhaps he was simply too low-ranking or inexperienced an agent to dare venture to gather intelligence on his queen. And that made a great deal of sense, given his presence in the temple prison. An inexperienced spy might well be charged with coaxing information from Faithful prisoners; if one were to find him out, he could simply move on to a new mark. It was an ideal training ground.

But why had he approached her? Not to spy, surely, or he would not have told her that he served the king. That brought her back to the question of whether he was threatening her. He was not showing her the deference proper to her status, and yet his demeanor was oddly ingratiating for a blackmailer – but if he was not a blackmailer, then what did he want from her?

Just as they turned into the long passage that led back to the prison entrance, Thânikhôr cleared his throat. “My queen,” he said, and her gaze snapped towards him. “You are as virtuous as you are fair. I overheard by chance what passed between your esteemed self and Lord Meryavaldo, and I wonder at Zigûr, that he should so abandon all duty and loyalty to the crown he serves. How do you intend to save your cousin from him?”

Thânikhôr’s longwindedness, his obsequious words combined with the easy authority of his manner, the whole of his demeanor was straining Tar-Míriel’s patience to the breaking point. “If you overheard what passed between my esteemed self and my cousin,” she snapped, “then you know already that I cannot save him.”

“I did not wish to speak too freely where your cousin might hear me,” Thânikhôr returned, hardly seeming to notice her irritation; “nor indeed will I reveal the greater part of my thoughts until I may be assured that we truly speak in private. But this much I will say now: through the love I bear my country and my gracious queen and king, I have settled upon a cure to your ill-fortune. If you will hear me, my queen, I believe you may yet save your cousin’s life, do no harm to your own illustrious virtue, and much please the king upon his return besides.”

Tar-Míriel stopped in her tracks, staring at him. _What?_ she did not say aloud, and then _Why? What do you gain by this?_ But as the last question lingered in her mind, she realized he had already given her the answer. _Much please the king._ Here was an ambitious man of no real consequence, who had probably never so much as spoken to her husband, and seeing a chance of winning royal favor, he had snatched it up.

“I will hear you,” she said.

Whatever plan he had concocted was most likely worthless. But he _had_ overheard her with Meryavaldo, and she was not going to assume, as she had done in that first meeting with Zigûr, that she had already doomed herself as thoroughly as it was possible to be doomed. It was worth humoring him a little for safety’s sake.

And sparking to life in a far corner of her mind, faint and foolish and somehow irrepressible, she felt a glimmer of hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content notes for this chapter:  
> Elizabethan era-typical views on sexual ethics


End file.
